


Buy My Silence

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Combeferre POV, Get-Together Fic, Granjolras, M/M, enjolras what is you doing, enjoltaire - Freeform, exr - Freeform, yes this obviously came from a meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 03:25:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16109783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: Les Amis start a crowdfund to get R to be quiet for a month.  Some members take issue with the concept.Warnings: alcohol consumption (no abuse)





	Buy My Silence

“—and furthermore, if we truly reflect on the lifestyle of Thomas Paine I think we can all agree—”

Combeferre hides the upturned corners of his mouth behind his hand as his attention shifts to Enjolras. Sure enough, the man is puffing up more and more as the time goes by, and if there weren’t several pre-med students in the room he might truly be concerned about the color Enjolras’s face is turning.

It’s been a while since Grantaire has truly gone off like this. Combeferre checks the time, confirming that another five minutes have gone by with the man showing no sign of stopping of his own accord.

“Grantaire, would you kindly be quiet for just a moment? Is that within your realm of capacity?” Enjolras grits out at last through clenched teeth.

“Buy my silence for $8000 a month,” Grantaire shoots back without missing a beat.

Combeferre recognizes the quote, a punchline in some joke that Courfeyrac has been inundating all of their group chats with alongside his normal selection of memes. It’s impossible to say if Enjolras, rolling his eyes and releasing an exasperated huff, is aware that is it a reference.

“I’ll hold you to that,” warns Bahorel, mouth already angled into a crooked smile.

“Do it.”

“You know,” says Joly thoughtfully, twirling his pencil on his finger, “it wouldn’t be that hard. There are crowdfunds for weirder endeavors.”

“And think of the publicity it could bring us!” adds Courfeyrac excitedly.

Enjolras looks irritated at best by the continued derailment of his meeting, but the room is already buzzing with energy. 

“We work in a pretty large spread of places, too,” offers Feuilly. “And R is infamous in most of them. I’d bet that if we publicize this with just the right angle, we could appeal to a lot of audiences that would normally be very apathetic to our work.”

The look of absolute betrayal on Enjolras’s face seems to be the deciding factor, and after that everyone else falls into order organizing their new project. 

Before the meeting is over, Bossuet has the crowdfund page set up and a link to it from the club’s website, and Éponine of all people has organized everyone into teams for spreading the word as effectively as possible

Enjolras is still in his spot up front looking around in bewilderment as everything falls into place without him having to lift a finger. Combeferre sits with Éponine who is already dividing people up into groups for flyers and determining post times for ideal web traffic when the blond man approaches them.

“I’m going to remember this the next time we’re organizing an event and you say you can’t do it.”

“Back it up, Sunny boy. There is a difference between ‘can’t’ and ‘won’t.’ I ‘can’ do whatever I want. I ‘won’t’ volunteer for your silly door-to-door caroling.”

“And this is somehow less silly?”

She shrugs. “This is something I’m invested in. Surprised you’re not, too.”

\---

Combeferre observes over the next week how Enjolras stays carefully uninvolved, submerging himself in seemingly any and all Les Amis business that does not pertain to the subject of everyone’s interest. Courfeyrac has been excitedly copying the crowdfund link in the Les Amis group chat repeatedly, clambering for everyone to check the latest amount that they’ve raised.

Grantaire appears to be taking it all in stride, hamming it up in chats and talking up people at both of his places of employment and the various events Éponine has planned with an easy charisma he admits he usually reserves for barkeeping. Combeferre has never spent much time with Grantaire, but as they walk around the block together to the Musain from their latest publicity effort he observes firsthand that Grantaire sincerely seems to know everyone they pass from some place or another: his shipping job, the bar, the gym, dance classes, even regulars at his bus stop never seem too foreign for him to forget their name or withhold some variation on a grin. 

Standing with Courfeyrac and Feuilly on rounds earlier had earned them more stories from more people than Combeferre could possibly recount with accuracy, somehow making him all the more fond of the man. With each story told, the passersby’s eyes would alight at seeing a way that they could support the man, support something that the loquacious fixture in their lives evidently found worth selling his silence for, and would exclaim that this would be the best R-story yet. After hearing some of the stories, Combeferre isn’t sure he agrees, but he’s honored to be a part of this one.

As they settle into the meeting room, Courfeyrac stands in the front center of the room. “I have an announcement to make,” he intones seriously. The room’s chatters silences. “In one week—forty-eight days from our deadline—we have already received $2647 in pledges.”

The room erupts in cheers, all except for Enjolras next to Combeferre who gapes before slowly recomposing his expression. “I hadn’t,” he starts, softly. “I hadn’t realized that fundraising has been so successful.”

Combeferre shrugs. “We’re not there yet. Things could slow down.” 

He doesn’t react. “I’ll have to take notes on Éponine’s methods.” 

Combeferre knows that this is a deflection. “Some of it is also the cause itself.”

Enjolras looks up at him. “The American Association of People with Disabilities?”

“R.”

“Ah.” Enjolras’s face remains expressionless. “I suppose he does talk a lot.

Combeferre sighs. Clearly this conversation is going nowhere fast, and Éponine is already up front barking new commands, updates, and changes for everyone to take note of.

By the end of the meeting, Enjolras is quietly seated with Feuilly and Bossuet who are animatedly discussing web traffic trends and comparing them with Éponine’s schedule. “Hey Enj, I’m about to head out—you ready?” asks Combeferre.

Enjolras’s head jerks up in surprise. He quickly and wordlessly gathers his things, tumbling out of the room with a quick good-bye.

“You okay?” checks Combeferre with a cocked eyebrow.

“Yeah. Guess I’m just not used to taking a backseat in these things,” he admits, shoving his hands in the backs of his pockets.

Combeferre suspects that the sheepish half-grin is an attempt to disguise a deeper level of unease and elects to leave it be.

\---

“Wait, Enjolras hasn’t made any donations yet?” half-shrieks Courfeyrac.

Enjolras, now the center of attention, shrugs uneasily. It’s not uncommon for the Amis to decline to donate from their own pocket to their causes—after all, there is a distance  
they must maintain, and many of them are current or recent undergraduates. This, though, is a cause that everyone seems to have a personal stake in; even Marius has made a contribution—this amid claims (from Courfeyrac) that it doesn’t count as “his” contribution if it comes from Courfeyrac’s couch cushions, but it’s a contribution nevertheless. Of all of them, Enjolras is the one to blur that line between professional and personal the most frequently.

Bahorel attempts to break the discomfort: “I would have figured you’d be financing the whole campaign. It contributes to the two causes closest to your heart: betterment of humanity and getting R to shut his trap.” That earns a laugh around the room, and when Enjolras’s eye darts to Combeferre with a surprised look Combeferre can only shrug. 

“$6500!” Marius cries. Combeferre sees Enjolras freeze.

“So soon,” Enjolras breathes, swallowing.

“Yeah, it’s kinds crazy,” admits Courfeyrac. “R knows a lot of people from his jobs, though, and I guess especially at his bartending gig there’s a lot of people willing to pay for the novelty of him being quiet.”

“But also it’s actually a really good cause,” adds Bossuet. “I don’t think most people would bother if they thought he was actually pocketing all of the money.”

“It’s a very honest campaign,” comments Feuilly. “Éponine did a really great job picking our target audience.”

“Who would that be?”

Feuilly shrugs. “Your average joe walking down the street. A lot of fundraisers are kind of shady with their hidden costs, so Éponine said we should be upfront that 10%’ll go toward helping R with things like rent and other necessities, and then all the rest will go toward AAPD. The online donations go back to the donors if it falls through, but getting people on the street to feel comfortable taking the risk that it doesn’t work out has really been what makes or breaks us in this thing. And the real people on the street who know and like R have really been pulling through for us—for him.”

Combeferre nods in agreement, but Enjolras seems unconvinced.

 

When Combeferre goes into the kitchen that night, Enjolras is seated at the bar staring at the donations page open on his computer in front of him.

“Everyone else has already donated,” he says aloud unprompted as Combeferre replaces the milk in the fridge.

Combeferre makes an assenting sound.

“I should donate.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t feel comfortable. You’ve donated to more of our causes than any of the rest of us.” Combeferre draws a harsher line than most, but even he’d had difficulty saying “no” to the man himself, seemingly sincere for the first time Combeferre’d ever seen when he’d asked for support in his efforts.

Enjolras sits in silence, maintaining unblinking eye contact with the screen. That can’t be healthy.

“It doesn’t have to be a lot if you do donate,” amends Combeferre. “One dollar. Less, even. We’re already more than on-track to meet our goal before the deadline, it won’t make or break anything.”

Enjolras continues to sit, staring at the screen, as Combeferre washes his bowl and spoon and returns to him room.

\---

“We,” announces Courfeyrac grandly, “met our goal in seventeen days, thirty-eight days before our deadline.

“Total number of backers: 1894. Largest contribution: $2085.30, graciously contributed by the ‘Official R Silencing Committee.’ As an aside, R has assured me that he is very closely acquainted with this group of individuals and plans to pass our warmest thanks onto them when he serves them tomorrow night. 

“Smallest contribution,” Courfeyrac continues, “is a whopping $.53 from our very own Mister Marius Pontmercy.” The room erupts in a round of whoops and hollers, several people taking deep draws from their steins in his honor as a red-faced Marius stands up and takes stilted bows with a guilty smile. 

“Before everyone gets too deep in their cups,” Feuilly interrupts, standing, “I want to show you what Bossuet’s set up for the site.”

The room dims so that the screen projected behind Courfeyrac is visible. Courfeyrac dramatically feigns a hiss before scurrying out of the light and into a seat on the far side of the room. Bossuet has the same donations tab opened that had become such an essential part of their website weeks before, only now the top shows the former icon as a watermark with a celebratory message overlaying it reading that the goal has been met.

Below it now is an area Bossuet describes as a vlog diary where not only Les Amis can post update videos throughout the month for others to comment on, but they can also approve videos from other users showcasing their interactions with a silent Grantaire. It’s brilliant, Combeferre thinks, and everyone else seems to agree as they break out into applause and another round of drinks. 

Grantaire is absolutely glowing with pride as everyone surrounds him, clapping him on the back and offering him their mugs of ale. Jehan and Courfeyrac have started recording what they seem to have determined to be the very first video of the vlog diary, asking a barrage of questions with varying degrees of levity. Combeferre sees Feuilly cringing already at the amount of editing that will need to go into it, but Jehan’s steady hand promises that the footage itself will be good regardless of the cuts that will need made.

 

Enjolras and Combeferre take the metro home that night. Even through a tipsy haze, Combeferre can tell Enjolras is on-edge. 

“What’s the matter?” Combeferre considers wrapping an arm around his friend, something he knows would be completely off the table were he sober. Ultimately, that’s what makes his mind up for him: Enjolras is often tolerant at best of his friend’s drunken antics, and now is not the time to be pushing his buttons.

At first Combeferre isn’t sure Enjolras has even heard him, or if he has he assumes that Enjolras must be ignoring him, so he doesn’t ask a second time. They get off at their stop and are on street-level again before Enjolras responds.

“He can’t even speak, how is he supposed to post updates?” Enjolras snaps.

Combeferre looks down at his friend in surprise, biting back a laugh.

“Good question, Enj. I suppose we’ll just have to find out.”

\---

Grantaire started his month of silence four days ago, on the first of the month. Combeferre is grateful that the date is so memorable so he can curse it for the rest of time.

Combeferre and Enjolras are usually out of the apartment at all hours of the day for one reason or another, but the rare moments that they are both in are insufferable. It starts small, Enjolras pacing their kitchen enough that Combeferre is certain he could ascertain the pivots points on the floor by touch.

Then the tracking begins: “This video was uploaded ten minutes ago, how are there already four comments? Why do people even care? It’s just some guy not talking, like most people do 90% of the time.”

“I’d imagine that would be because R’s not exactly ‘regular people’ in that regard,” responds Combeferre, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“But why do people even care about someone they don’t know not talking?”

“Why do you care about people you don’t know commenting on a video of your friend not talking?”

 

By the time next Wednesday’s meeting rolls around, Combeferre cannot wait for his best friend’s attention to be on literally anything else.

Except it’s not.

“We decided to stick with Éponine’s regiment for our regular updates, and Les Amis web traffic is absolutely skyrocketing on all of our tabs, which is pretty incredible,” Feuilly says, using a pointer to indicate lists of automatically generated numbers and graphs Bossuet has pulled up on the screen. 

As usual, Éponine takes her credit from a back seat next to Grantaire, shrugging with a smile that is equal parts casual confidence and embarrassment. Grantaire doesn’t look up from the sketchpad in his lap as he nudges her. She shoves his shoulder back with more force than the average person might call playful, but Combeferre sees her smiles grow a little wider.

Enjolras is the only one who doesn’t give a cheer, looking just as grumpy in his usual seat as he’s been all week. Combeferre elects to ignore it, joining in in his friends’ joy.

“We’re also excited to say that we are way over our initial anticipated number of daily submitted videos, and I want to thank R for being so accommodating to everyone on the streets who wants to. Seems you’re a regular celebrity this month.”

Grantaire jumps up from his seat, removing his knees from where they were perched against the table and throwing his sketchpad haphazardly across the table. He starts making wide sweeping gestures out from his chin, hands flying in a flurry of motion around his face as Feuilly dryly narrates: “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’d like to thank my mother and my…mother? Did you mean to sign ‘mother’ twice?” Grantaire’s expression turns flat as he raises his fist, dropping it solemnly at the wrist. “All right, okay, have a seat y’clown.” Grantaire changes expressions again, taking a dramatic, sweeping bow before returning to exactly the position he was in before, cheesy grin plastered across his face that apparently even Éponine can’t seem to find it in herself to tease him about.

And still Enjolras sits in his seat, unamused and unimpressed.

“What’s up your butt, Enjolras? You’re not jealous, are ya?” teases Bahorel. The thought had occurred to Combeferre multiple times over the past several days, but he had never been suicidal enough to suggest it out loud.

“No,” Enjolras responds sharply in a tone that directly contradicts its words.

“Aw, it’s okay to feel jealous sometimes. Don’t worry, after all of this is done you’ll be the one in the front of the room again.” Combeferre has always suspected that Courfeyrac has very little sense of self preservation, but having it confirmed brings its own sort of peace and anxiety.

“I. Am not. Jealous,” bites Enjolras. It’s not very convincing.

There’s a pause where everyone expects Grantaire to speak up for a second, turning toward him in tandem. The man throws his hands into the air with an easy shrug before returning to whatever is apparently more important than teasing Enjolras. Combeferre decides that if infuriating Enjolras is the goal, Grantaire has probably chosen the best possible route. He spots Enjolras’s knuckles go white as he grips the edge of the table.

Apparently Enjolras’s absolute breaking point is reached when Courfeyrac and Jehan remember their responsibilities to document the experience in the middle of Enjolras’s presentation on a new direction to take their ongoing campaign for gender-neutral bathrooms. 

“Are you kidding me?” he fumes in disbelief, fists slamming on the table in front of him. Combeferre can’t help but think how frustrated Enjolras is going to be later when he tells his anger management mentor about this.

“Look, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac explains calmly. “I’m not saying that this is more important than our work, because it’s not. I just want to point out that we have over 300 people subscribed to notifications for when the R cam gets updated, and those people have been checking out our other content when they do visit.” 

“So maybe we should actually be doing something and taking advantage of the attention while we have it instead of sitting around and focusing on the useless drunk who doesn’t do anything.”

“Enjolras,” reprimands Combeferre firmly. Enjolras shoots an angry look at him that softens when the weight of his words hits him.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, looking down at the table in front of him. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

Combeferre missed when Grantaire stood up, but he cuts Enjolras’s apology off with a hand on his upper arm and a shrug. He scribbles something on the corner of his sketchpad and turns it on the table for Enjolras to read.

“No, that’s not true, you’re—”

Grantaire interrupts him again with a hand on his shoulder and insistent eye contact that he has to crouch under Enjolras comically to make before standing upright again, shrugging before smiling. He indicates to Jehan and Courfeyrac to follow him into the hallway, and the room is silent and attentive once more for a significantly less passionate Enjolras to finish explaining his next plan for action.

\---

It’s a quiet week, and not only because Grantaire still isn’t talking. After the last meeting, Courfeyrac had offered his couch up to Combeferre if he wanted it, and Combeferre has taken him up on it twice with every intention of doing it again if the need arises. 

That said, Enjolras has also mellowed significantly since the last meeting. Perhaps talking with his mentor brought clarity to the feelings he has about the situation. Whatever the reason, when Combeferre gets home he finds with increasing frequency that his best friend is in his bedroom hunched over his computer, and Combeferre can’t bring himself to break the tentative peace.

“Did you know Grantaire has a youtube channel?” Enjolras asks him one night as Combeferre is about to extricate himself from the blond’s doorway.

“Hmm? Yeah, he posts links to our groups every once in a while. Why?”

Enjolras doesn’t look up from the screen as he shrugs. “I never knew. Wonder why not.”

Combeferre has no answer.

 

The next meeting is much more comfortable: Enjolras shows up more prepared to be patient, which they had talked about before leaving, but Combeferre can also see the ways Courfeyrac and Jehan are adjusting their actions to keep the attention on the meeting instead of their ministrations with Grantaire. Combeferre feels a surge of appreciation for his friends.

When they split off into groups, Combeferre is helping Enjolras plan the route for their latest rally when he gets called over by Courfeyrac. He’s hunched over Feuilly at the Bossuet’s bulky indestructible laptop, still somehow patched here and there with strips of duct tape.

“Wanna tell me what you were doing watching the vlog diary at 4:47 this morning?” asks Courfeyrac, grin audible as he speaks.

Combeferre bites back his automatic answer, that he wasn’t watching the vlog—he was awake at 4:47AM, he has no defense against that, but that wasn’t the question. Combeferre was dividing his attention between three medical textbooks by that point in the night.

“Why do you assume I was the one watching them?” he asks, squinting down where Courfeyrac is pointing at the screen.

“It’s your and Enjolras’s IP address,” answers Feuilly. At his look, Feuilly expands: “I don’t have your IP addresses memorized, but I tagged them so our figures would be more accurate than just tracking every time Courfeyrac refreshed the backer’s page.”

“And at 4:47AM, a computer at our IP address was watching the vlog diaries,” Combeferre guesses.

“That’s the size of it.” 

“Huh. I must have left it running on autoplay when I switched to my textbooks.” The alternative seems entirely too implausible.

 

When they finally arrive home, he checks his laptop and confirms his secret suspicion: shut down, same as it was as of 1AM the night prior.

\---

The week has been going really well—remarkably well. Combeferre has been able to come home and study and eat and rest in peace all week. Enjolras’s appearances outside of his room are more frequent and pleasant, even when they amount to sitting in comfortable silence with one another. More pleasant yet is that Combeferre sees Enjolras showing up again the collections of selfies that their friends post in their text groups and social platforms again. At last, Combeferre feels like he can relax again

It was too much to ask.

“After all, we all know that Robespierre was the greatest revolutionary the world has ever seen,” concludes Enjolras. It’s not his imagination: Enjolras is looking directly at Grantaire, daring him to say something. Honestly, Combeferre is debating saying something following that rant: it was in no way directly relevant to any of Les Amis’s missions, current or prior.

“Up next, a collection of paintings whose names and artists I will pronounce correctly, followed by a thorough tear-down of how little significance they bear to anything.”

Someone should stop him. Maybe somebody would have already if not for the fact that Grantaire, if anything, only appears thoroughly amused at the effort.

“All right, first up: Persistence of Memory.” Combeferre has never studied art a day in his life, but even he knows Starry Night when he sees it. “By Vincent Van Gogh.” 

Feuilly speaks up this time: “There are two ways to say that man’s name, and you said neither of them.”

“Unimportant. As you can see, this is a sky. Presumably, there are stars, but the man never properly blended his paints, so we’ll never truly know what he was attempting to capture. And that’s all there is to say about that, next slide.” Enjolras clicks a button on his remote, and the next image is projected on the screen.

“The Dawn of Consumerism.”

“Son of Man,” calls Éponine from the back. Her feet are up on the table, legs crossed, and she’s smirking at whatever Grantaire is rapidly scribbling across his page.

“Same difference. Dah-veed Mag-rit.” Combeferre, Enjolras, and Feuilly seem to be the only ones in the room capable of maintaining deadpan composure at the moment, and Combeferre can see Feuilly and feel himself losing their holds on it. Jehan has an expression of actual pain, but everyone else seems to be doing their best to fall apart in silence. “Many believe this to be Steve Jobs’s first advertisement for his start-up, but this was actually developed by the Beatles’ record company, Apple Corps, who would go on to sue Jobs’s Apple successfully once and without success the second time, truly confirming the irony of its name.”

“Son of Man?” calls Éponine sweetly.

“Yeah, whatever. Do you have something to add, Grantaire?”

Grantaire, seeming to attempt to frown away a smile, shakes his head in the negative.

“He has literally written down that he has nothing to add to your interpretation.”

A flash of irritation seems to cross Enjolras’s face before he moves onto the next slide.

“The Sexualization of the Female Form.”

“It’s literally Venus, Goddess of love, beauty, and sex!” cries Jehan.

“Apparently the white European variety of beauty, and with a body attainable only by the upper class. Artist: Keith Her-Ring.”

“How do you know of Keith Herring but not appreciate the movement in Van Gogh’s art style?” interjects an exasperated Feuilly, smiling at last.

“Oh I promise you, we’ll be getting to that. Let’s get back to The Birth of Objectification, though.”

 

Combeferre and Enjolras are sitting together on the couch. It’s a rare night off for Enjolras and a rarer night off for Combeferre. A nature documentary plays on the tv that neither of them fully pay attention to, alternating between books and phones.

“What was tonight all about?” Combeferre asks at last.

“What do you mean?”

“The art. The teasing. The sarcasm that didn’t even seem like you were trying to make anyone cry.”

“I can have fun sometimes.”

“You flipped out two weeks ago that we weren’t taking enough advantage of the attention.”

Enjolras shrugs.

“You know that sabotaging R’s efforts would not exactly put you in everyone’s best graces.”

Enjolras looks up, expression shocked at first before shifting to embarrassment. 

“No need to be concerned, we all know R has more resolve than that, and we would have stopped you were any of us ever worried he was in real danger of breaking his silence.”

Enjolras grimaces, crossing his arms and hunching over. If Combeferre didn’t know any better he’d suppose that Enjolras had begun his own self-imposed silence.

“I just don’t understand what you’re trying to do anymore.”

There’s a long silence, and Combeferre almost misses Enjolras’s answer under the renewed vigor of the documentary’s narrator. 

“Me neither.”

\---

Combeferre is nearly at the meeting room when the door slams open, a furious and red-faced Grantaire pushing past him.

Combeferre grabs him by the arm, trying to train his expression to one of confusion and concern and willing the anger lying just beneath the surface away. Now that he can really look at Grantaire, he sees that his eyes shine with unshed tears, and when Grantaire yanks his arm back Combeferre lets him go without a fight. Grantaire takes a shallow breath before digging into his pocket, pulling out a phone that he wiggles between his fingers with feigned nonchalance before thundering down the steps.

Combeferre walks into the room and immediately sees Enjolras leaning against a table with one hand, other clutching the side of his face. Next to him is a piece of paper half-filled with black scribbles, a pen abandoned on the floor. Combeferre’s phone is already in his hand when it vibrates, but he has a sinking feeling he knows what happened here already.

 

_He kept trying to provoke me into talking, and then he kissed me. I don’t want to talk about it, but I can’t be around him right now._

 

“Enjolras, what in the hell is wrong with you?” Combeferre’s patience has run out. “You’ve been trying to sabotage this effort at every turn, and now this? You of all people should know that a lack of ‘no’ does not constitute as consent, nevermind whatever your pigheaded motivations may have been.” He pauses to take a breath, trying to regain control over himself. “You need to fix this.” 

Enjolras won’t look up at him, and Combeferre doesn’t particularly want him to. “I,” the man starts, sounding unsteady. “I don’t think he wants to see me right now.” 

Combeferre sighs. “I’m not sure I want to either,” he admits. “Why don’t you take the night off? Go home, figure things out. I’ll run tonight’s meeting.” 

Enjolras nods, still refusing to meet Combeferre’s eye with his hand up at what is quickly becoming a very swollen bruise.

When Combeferre is alone in the room, he drops into a chair, rubbing his face with both hands. Is this what the past few weeks have been about? He reviews everything under the light of the revelation, and things start to click together. It doesn’t excuse any of it, but the single thread of logic connecting all of the bizarre behavior becomes clear. 

Combeferre sighs again before pulling out his phone, informing the group that Enjolras is taking the night off and sending Grantaire a text letting him know that he is welcome to return if he feels up to it. While Grantaire’s feelings for Enjolras have never been a particularly well-guarded secret, he can’t imagine that this is what the man could have wanted.

The meeting starts without a hitch, and despite Enjolras’s mysterious and unprecedented absence no one makes any comment on it. Grantaire arrives thirty minutes into the meeting looking a bit on-edge but in much better spirits. Combeferre gives him a small smile as the man is cajoled over to Courfeyrac and Jehan.

 

When the last person has left and Combeferre is organizing his things, he noticed a paper of a different thickness and texture mixed in with his notes. “Thanks for looking out for me,” the cramped black ink reads. There’s surprisingly detailed profile of Combeferre smiling over some papers at a table—possibly the front table, given that the outfit matches what Combeferre wears as his eyes follow the lines of the sketch. He returns the paper to the stack and tucks them into his messenger bag before leaving.

\---

The project ends on a Monday, Courfeyrac insisting on capturing Grantaire’s first moment of sound at exactly midnight despite that everyone has work and classes Tuesday morning. The tab stays on the website, though Bossuet says they’re locking comments and submissions at the meeting Wednesday.

As best as Combeferre can tell, Grantaire hasn’t made the interaction with Enjolras public knowledge. For his part, Enjolras is back to holing himself up in his room. He makes polite conversation when Combeferre seeks him out, but otherwise it’s clear that he’s moping, and Combeferre sees no point in trying to force Enjolras to do anything he doesn’t want to do.

He arrives early to the Musain once again. His hand is on the doorknob to open it when he hears voices. Normally this would not perturb him, but the tone brings him pause.  
“You asked me to come, here I am. Say what you have to say,” demands Grantaire. 

There’s a long silence, and Combeferre isn’t certain he’s talking with anyone until he hears it: “I’m sorry,” a second, softer voice says. It’s so out of character that Combeferre doesn’t immediately place it as Enjolras. He speaks again, a bit more strongly this time. “I know I texted it to you, but I want to say it again in person, and I want you to have the opportunity to speak back this time.

“What I did last week was wrong, and I know it. It was unfair to say what I said and do what I did without you having your preferred method of communication available to you to effectively relay your consent—or, more to the point, your lack of thereof.

“I think I have a pretty good idea of what your reaction is going to be, but I want to try this again, properly this time, where you can speak back and I’m not doing it out of a rash impulse.” There’s a moment of silence, and Combeferre finds himself with his ear nearly pressed against the door.

“I care about you and what you have to say, and I’m sorry it took some stupid challenge to make me realize it. I miss hearing you voice your opinions, infuriating and uninformed as they often are.” Is this him trying to appeal to Grantaire’s better judgment? “I miss hearing your laugh, I miss your ridiculous rambles that lose all sense of the topic at hand, I miss your rants about yogurt and that woman at your local deli and the dog in your neighbor’s apartment that isn’t supposed to be there. And I know I messed up my chances with you before all of this even began, but I—”

Enjolras’s voice cuts off, and Combeferre has to stop himself from shoving open the door on the spot.

“Just so you know,” Grantaire says, sounding much breathier than before, “you are the absolute worst at ingratiating yourself to others. Try not to get into the habit of putting yourself into positions where you have to.” Enjolras lets out a breathy laugh in response, and the room returns to silence.

“Hey ‘Ferre!” greets a slightly out of breath Joly. He must have run up the stairs again. “Any reason you’re waiting outside?” Combeferre tries not to flinch at the volume that the small man manages despite being leaned over his cane for support. 

“Nope, just got here,” he responds coolly, pausing another moment before pushing the door open at last.

Enjolras stands at the front of the room and Grantaire is seated in Enjolras’s normal seat up in the first row. They are both silent as they pore over the respective papers in front of them, faces matching shades of crimson. “Just in time,” calls Grantaire with an attempt at casualty that misses by a mile. 

Joly casts a suspicious look at all three of them before seeing Enjolras’s still-healing face and promptly panicking. “Oh my God, is this why you missed last week’s meeting?? I told ‘Chetta she should check on you, but she insisted that if it were anything worth fussing over ‘Ferre would be with you! Clearly this was not the case.”

Enjolras allows himself to be fussed over, periodically shooting nervous, bashful looks in Combeferre’s directly while Grantaire watches the mess openly and fondly.

The rest of the group’s reactions to Enjolras’s face fall on a spectrum from comments about the quality of its healing to commending the leader’s moxie. Grantaire looks like he is fighting the good fight with a laugh against the implication, and Enjolras’s smile seems to carry a double-meaning. 

Throughout the meeting, Enjolras is noticeably more at ease than he has been since the entire campaign began despite Grantaire being more contrary than ever. Irritated glares have been replaced with patient smiles, and the whole room settles back into the comfortable routine of benign banter and the sound of Grantaire’s voice in the background of their activities.

Eventually Courfeyrac comments on it, because Courfeyrac can always be trusted to do so whether it is warranted or not.

“Geez E, you haven’t been this relaxed in weeks. I swear, you’re like that xkcd comic with the restraining order donut.”

Enjolras looks confused, but Combeferre knows exactly what he’s talking about and grins at the unlikely accuracy of it.

“Looks like we just need to do another one of these kickstarters anytime Enj starts taking R for granted,” Courfeyrac jokes with a wicked grin.

Combeferre looks at his friend seriously. “I will ‘kickstart’ you directly to hell.”

Courfeyrac’s expression shifts to one of perfect innocence as he turns his body to face Combeferre. “For $8000.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note: I have crowdfunded before, I know it doesn't really work like this. And for the sake of fiction, I don't care: suspend your disbelief and enjoy the fic, please.
> 
> For the first (and probably only) time ever, Language is not a warning! It was a very intentional and difficult endeavor. I tried to keep out alcohol too, but...yeah. Not this time.
> 
> The story about Apple Corps and Apple Inc is actually true...Song of Man is just not involved in the least.
> 
> Inspired by [this post](https://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com/post/177802835226/adspexi-enjolras-grantaire-you-are-incapable).
> 
> The xkcd comic Courf refers to is [this one](https://xkcd.com/415/).
> 
> I love comments so much, you truly cannot imagine. Please comment below or reach out to me at my tumblr [here](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)!!


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